


On lighthouses in the storm

by strawberriesandtophats



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Journey and Return, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 22:38:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13645878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: For the prompt:Someone in Treville's family dies, someone he loved dearly, but lost contact with his duty as Captain. Jean is much more devastated than expected, and Armand desperately tries to comfort him, being awkward and erratic, superbly failing a few times, until he finds the right way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FreyaLor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/gifts).



The letter came on a Monday morning, bundled up with the rest of them. Outside, the Musketeers trained, shouting and whooping. The clang of swords echoed around the garrison.

Treville opened letter after letter, reading messages from Musketeers on missions away from Paris and formal letters about potential new recruits from anxious parents. He wrote his responses, as he always did.

He barely registered how battered the letter was, since so many of them were by the time they reached him. Country roads and taverns and slow horses tended to be the main cause of that.

 So, he had already sliced it open, noting that it was from Gascony and not much more. A solid portion of his men came from Gascony.

A few wildflowers and yellowed blades of grass had been stuck in the envelope and so it smelled of home, of the hills and the fresh air.

The letter itself was a short, brutal thing.

He was so used to the flowery language of court, or the barely suppressed desperation of alarmed parents trying to help their sons find a new place for themselves in the world that the words on the page hit him like a blacksmith’s hammer.

His uncle had died, it said. Just keeled over one day and never woke up.

Treville held the letter, the world around him fading. Memories he’d stored away in a dusty chest in his mind surfaced: a friendly face standing with him in front of the stables in the morning air, sparring with him with a stick and teaching him footwork. Handing him sweets and laughing at his childish jokes.

That had been a lifetime ago.

Treville took the wrinkled flowers in between his fingers, inspecting every white petal.

Everything else around him was a blur. He couldn’t hear his men’s shouts or the horses neighing in the stables. He couldn’t even smell the half-eaten piece of bread on a plate by his elbow. He couldn’t even feel his own fingertips.

He didn’t know for how long he sat there, the letter in one hand and the flowers in the other.

Old memories flowed through him like water.

The taste of fresh water from the stream near a field he crossed every day. The way the wind sounded just before a storm hit. The taste of fresh butter on bread that was still hot from the oven.

He hadn’t spoken to his uncle in years. Not properly, at least. Not face to face.

There had been letters, general small talk about how each of them had been doing and what they were doing with their lives.

His uncle had never accused him of leaving anything behind by living in Paris. But he had always spoken about his desire to see Treville again when Treville came back _home_.

And now the chance to do that had passed them by.

Treville breathed, startled by the scent of ink and manure and leather that lingered in his office. Some part of him had been expecting to be back in Troisville, on a field among the flowers.

Had he left behind who he used to be, so long ago?

Was there anything left, really, of that little boy standing in the dirt with a stick in his hand and white-hot determination heating his blood?

Would his uncle have recognized him among his Musketeers, in his gleaming armor, had they met on the streets of Paris?

Would he have recognized the memory in his uncle’s eyes had they met?

The idea came to him then, clear cut and cold: he could leave for Troisville. To pay his respects, of course. But also to remember a life he had left and would one day have to return to.

He didn’t have to stay in Paris and steep in his memories, or step away from this situation by sending a response by letter about being too involved with matters of state to be able to attend the funeral.

He could just…leave.

There were matters to attend to first, of course. But a few days away wouldn’t mean that he’d come back to the garrison having burned down and the king having been kidnapped.

He put the flowers into his hat for safekeeping.

“Captain!” shouted one of the cadets, a voice Treville had only just begun to learn that was a part of his life. Treville opened the door before the kid could rip it open and stared at the scene in front of him.

Two Musketeers were on the ground, covered in mud and both clutching their arms. Blood seeped from their fingers.

“What happened?” Treville asked, eyes sweeping the garrison.

“I’ll run for the doctor,” D’Artagnan called, already on his way.

“Just an accident, Captain,” Aramis said, kneeling on the ground beside Dubois, who was moaning about the fact that he was not going to be able to use his arm for weeks. “It wasn’t a fight or anything. They just got distracted-“

Dubois scowled at Paget, who responded with a threatening look.

“It better not have been a fight,” Treville said as Porthos helped Paget, the other Musketeer, to his feet. “You know my opinions on Musketeers fighting each other.”

“Captain-“ Paget began, looking half-ashamed of himself. “It wasn’t supposed to get so serious-“

“Swords aren’t sticks,” Treville heard himself say. “They are weapons that can and will kill you.”

“Sir-“ Dubois began, but Treville ignored him.

 “I don’t want to have to send a letter to your relatives about anybody’s funeral, you understand?” Treville said. “This is not going to happen again. Now go rest, both of you, until the doctor comes.”

“Yes, sir,” they both said and headed off towards one of the benches.

 “The wounds will heal,” Aramis said, clearly trying to sound soothing.

“Keep an eye on them until the doctor arrives, Aramis,” Treville said. “I have an appointment with the king.”

 

 

“I will have to leave for Troisville in a few days, Sire,” Treville said, walking behind the king in the hallway. It was better to state it, rather than ask. Asking would mean that the king’s eyes would flicker towards Richelieu or hesitate for a brief moment. It was a delicate balance. The king liked to be asked questions, but he disliked being unsure.

The hours spent standing beside Richelieu while diplomats and courtiers spoke to the king were a haze.

Treville could feel Richelieu’s eyes on him, hear the whisper of cloth on the ground that haunted his dreams.

“Oh?” the king said, blinking. “Has there been some trouble your men there?”

“No,” Treville said, his voice low. “There has been a death in the family.”

The light in the king’s eyes dimmed for a second.

 “I’m sorry for your loss,” Louis said, slowing his pace and patting Treville’s shoulder. “Of course you may go and pay your respects.”

Richelieu made a solemn sound, lowering his eyes.

Treville bowed.

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Treville managed.

Already, his mind was filled with the sounds of hooves on gravel roads and the sight of treetops illuminated by the setting sun. He’d leave behind the swaying tulips in the Louvre’s gardens and the soft smile on Richelieu’s face whenever they reached an agreement.

Being a part of the Musketeers would always be a temporary solution, for everyone. It didn’t matter how far Treville had climbed. He’d always have to return.

There was no use in prolonging the inevitable.

“When will you come back?” Louis asked, like a child asking his father when he’d return from the marketplace.

Treville was silent.

He was getting old. Every day, the training became closer to impossible to keep up with as his shoulder screamed at him and his knees ached.

The wilted flowers were still in his hat.

Richelieu stepped closer to him, fabric rustling as he moved.

“You’ll be coming back, won’t you Treville?” Louis asked, his smile fading. The ripple of fear in the way his fingers moved against the lace on his sleeve, like he’d always done when alarmed.

The possibility of never returning, just sending letters back to Paris so that he would be replaced as the Captain and his affairs would be put in order, had never truly occurred to him before. As something he’d eventually be forced to do, yes. But not something he would do voluntarily.

It was like staring down a cliff’s edge, knowing that if you did survive the fall, you wouldn’t be the same afterwards.

He could do it, Treville knew. He could manage his estate. He had practice ordering people around.

Richelieu’s red silk sleeve fluttered in the breeze from the window and brushed Treville’s fingers.

The king had stilled, as if waiting for a storm to pass.

If he left, would he be losing anything he wouldn’t lose in due time anyway?

Treville looked up at Richelieu’s face, seeing the shift in his demeanor from the king’s most important advisor to someone who had spent a large part of his life learning how to react to situations such as these.

This wasn’t Armand.

This was Cardinal Richelieu, doing his duty.

“Of course,” Treville said to the king. “It’s just a few days.”

He saw Louis nodding at Richelieu and felt the scent of subtle perfume and fine soap envelop him as Richelieu stepped closer as the king hurried off to rest.

Treville’s legs wouldn’t move.

“Treville,” Richelieu began, his voice gentler than Treville had ever heard it. His bony fingers cupped Treville’s elbow. “If you wish I could-“

This wasn’t the time nor place for this.

No matter if Richelieu was a bloody priest and had been trained for this sort of thing.

Richelieu’s hand stayed still on his elbow.

Treville stepped back so fast that Richelieu’s eyes widened in alarm.

“I’ve got to start packing if I’m going to make it in time for the funeral,” Treville said. “Thank you for the offer.”

He left Richelieu standing alone in the middle of the hallway and didn’t look back.


	2. Chapter 2

Treville had gone on enough missions on the king’s behalf that packing and leaving the garrison was a well-honed series of events, too familiar a sight for his men to blink an eye when they saw him fetch his saddle.

Or the fancy armor.

Explaining where he was going and why didn’t take long and his men nodded solemnly, their hats in their hands. It didn’t take long to leave either, to end up on a road that lead back home.

He left Paris behind as his horse trotted along. The weight of the paperwork that always loomed in his mind as well as the paperwork and schedules faded from his mind underneath the endless sky.

Coming back to Troisville was like stepping into a dream.

The hills were the same, the sky was the same.

So was the silence.

After the bustle of Paris and the constant chatter and clatter in the garrison, it was the silence of the countryside that enveloped Treville like a feather-light blanket.

Even the road had its noises, the sound of hooves on gravel and the howl of the wind. He’d passed carts and riders and so many villages, all with their own sounds. There had been a comfort in that, in drinking cheap wine in tiny taverns and listening to the roar of the fire among men that had lived their entire lives on their beloved patch of land.

These men had glanced at his blue cloak and nodded respectfully.

And then they’d let him be.

But here, there was only birdsong.

He’d listened to the priest deliver his sermon as the grass swayed in the breeze outside the little church. He’d watched as the coffin had been lowered into the ground.

Afterwards, he’d found himself standing outside, when everyone else had left, watching the sun set. Horses grazed and cats napped in the fading light.

Would he be buried here too?

Among the fields and the forests and the mountains?

He’d always imagined dying on the battle field or being shot down while protecting the king. He had hundreds of nightmares about what would happen when after he’d shoved the king and Richelieu aside or shouted at his men to escort them away from danger.

Bleeding out on the cobblestones of Paris had felt fitting, when the assassin had shot him.

But he was still here.

And he’d got Richelieu back and watched him claw himself back to health.

Some days, when everything went according to plan and Richelieu’s pace matched his exactly as the man smiled at him and you could practically see his mind ticking away like a clock, Treville felt himself survey the situation like a battle plan.

He knew that other Musketeers would take his place one day, sooner or later.

But listening to the king’s happy chatter and breathing in the scent of tulips and fresh grass mingled with Richelieu’s perfume, Jean never wanted to leave…

 

Treville didn’t turn around when he heard footsteps behind him.

“You could stay, you know, Jean,” his aunt said, low and careful, as if she was trying to maneuver fate itself. “You’d do a fine job, managing the estate. You could even marry.”

He didn’t miss the hopeful note on the last word.

I’m already married, he wanted to respond. In all the ways it counted.

Not that it was anything they’d ever spoken of in so many words. But if being married was having someone who understood you and who you knew in your heart that you would spend your entire life loving, then yes.

It was Richelieu who he thought of when he heard a love song in the tavern or played at court. It was Richelieu who walked so close to him that their arms brushed, who took his head when they were alone, telling him secrets that could and would have them killed if they ever left the room.

It was Richelieu who stood tall beside him during court, history writing itself in his wake.

And Louis would watch them with gleam in his eyes, as if he was watching a magnificent performance.

Still, he understood why his aunt would say things like this.

It would be an easier life, in many respects.

He wouldn’t have to manage the garrison or supervise the training of the new recruits or make sure that his men stayed out of trouble.

There was far more silver in his hair and beard than there had been just a few years ago. He’d heard his relatives whispering about him, saying that he was working himself to death.

Looking down at his hand, he saw that the wilted flowers were still inside his hat, having survived the trip.

“I’ll come back one day,” Treville said. “I can’t leave things undone like this.”

His aunt nodded, appearing satisfied.

“One day, then.”

“Yes,” Treville managed, tightening the hold on his hat. “But not yet.”

 

 

Coming back to Paris felt like waking up, like being able to breathe again after staying too long underwater. Treville listened to the sound of doors closing and merchants and customers haggling and all the sounds you get when people are crammed together along a road.

The Musketeers waved at him when he arrived at the garrison, covered in dust from top to toe. They offered their condolences but Treville could see the gleam in their eyes when they patted him on the shoulder.

The garrison was as neat as it could be, no leftover food on the benches or forgotten knives in the mud. Even the horses looked freshly brushed and well-fed.

“It’s good to have you back, sir,” D’Artagnan said, looking at him through a mop of hair.

“I see that you cleaned up,” Treville said, gesturing to several carts of horseshit that were being pushed away from the stables by a few unlucky cadets.

“Couldn’t risk that you’d see a big mess and decide to go back and stay there, sir,” Aramis said.

Treville smiled, not bothering to cover his mouth.

“The King will be happy to see that you’re back too,” Porthos said. “I overheard from the Red Guards that Richelieu has been rather testy since you’ve been away.”

“Right,” Treville said. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

 

 

The halls of the Louvre had stayed the same, of course. And the king’s smile when Treville had announced his return and bowed was as warming as the summer breeze.

The courtiers murmured polite greetings and nodded in his direction.

Richelieu looked at him with the expression of a man who had been personally holding the gates of hell shut with his bare hands.

“I see that you’ve returned, safe and sound,” Richelieu said, taking his place beside Treville. He sighed, his shoulders visibly relaxing. “I had begun to suspect that you were planning on staying over there in the countryside.”

“Did you?” Treville asked, decidedly not looking at the bags underneath Richelieu’s eyes. “None of my men told me about anyone being offered my position.”

“You aren’t so easy to replace,” Richelieu said, shaking his head as if the thought of someone else being Captain was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “If you had lingered-“

“Were you going to ride to Troisville personally to drag me back?” Treville asked, raising his eyebrows.

Louis smiled, ducking his head to hide his amusement.

“No doubt many people wanted you to stay to manage the estate,” Richelieu said, sounding diplomatic and strangely careful, as if he was balancing something fragile. “But France needs you where you are.”

It would have been so easy to stay.  It would have been so damn easy.

But now that he was back, the road back to Troisville was long and winding. A journey for another year.

And he could feel Richelieu’s sleeve brush against his fingers when the man straightened his back, listening to the king speak.

Richelieu smiled at him, hard and terrifying as a knife across the throat. It was the smile of a man who’d walk into hell itself it he thought it was necessary for his plans to be successful.

“I hoped you’d come back,” Richelieu said. “You are a man of your word, after all.”

 Treville said nothing.

He knew perfectly well that they needed him back to do his job. Some part of him, perhaps childishly, wanted Richelieu to confirm that he wanted Jean back too, not just Treville the Captain of the Musketeers.

Of course, this wasn’t the place for such a discussion.

There were very few places for a discussion like that.

Richelieu’s hands were shaking and his eyes kept flickering to Treville, but Treville kept his eyes on the king.

“If you had wanted to leave, you would have said so,” Richelieu said, the words sounding more like a often repeated prayer than anything else.

The king nodded, clearly approving of this deduction.

Coming back meant buying more time for both of them. Just a sliver, perhaps. But enough for now.

 

The sun was sinking on the horizon when they mounted the stairs to Richelieu’s office.

“I knew you’d come back,” Richelieu said as soon as they were inside his office. It was the same voice he used when he told the king that God would watch over him. “You had to come back.”

“I thought about staying,” Treville managed. He closed the door behind him, listening for footsteps out of sheer habit.

A clean cut.

He’d done his duty.

He’d served France for so long.

“But you didn’t,” Richelieu insisted, his long fingers brushing Treville’s shoulder, then moving towards the lace at his throat.

“I can’t just abandon my post,” Treville said, feeling the warmth of Richelieu’s hand against his neck. He leaned into it, just a fraction.

The smile on Richelieu’s face was not the smile of a man whose plans were all falling into place, but the smile of a man whose deep personal wish had been granted.

“Many people would have,” Richelieu said. “Our roots pull us back, no matter where we now reside. And you were surrounded by family members which you hadn’t seen in a long time-“

“I belong in Paris,” Treville stated. “I live here. I’ll have to leave eventually, we all do but I’m not just going to leave everyone to fend for themselves-“

“So, you came back because of your duty to France?” Richelieu asked, stepping closer.

“I came back because I wanted to,” Treville said as Richelieu’s hand cupped the back of his neck. “You wanted me back too.”

“Did I?” Richelieu asked, teasing as Treville dropped his hat on the desk and a single withered flower fell to the floor.

Treville leaned his forehead against Richelieu’s, gripping his shoulders.

Richelieu kissed him with the desperation of drowning man who’d just glimpsed a well. Treville kissed him back, careful to let Richelieu catch his breath and for the haze in his eyes to diminish.

“Alright?” Treville asked, keeping his hands utterly still on Richelieu’s hips.

“Yes,” Richelieu breathed, sweat trickling down his collarbone. He was already shivering, hands buried in Treville’s hair.

Treville nodded and crushed Richelieu’s mouth against his until they were both gasping for air.

Layers slid off, one by one.

Silk, leather, cotton.

Time stretched out, a second was a day in the cool shade underneath the burning sun. A minute was a glimpse of eternity.

They cleaned up and dressed, efficient and thorough until there was nothing to suggest what they had just been up to except the flush on Richelieu’s neck and Treville’s messy hair.

He could blame the wind for that and the Musketeers would believe him.

Richelieu sat down behind his desk and Treville took his hat, nodding at the Cardinal before he closed the door behind him.

 


End file.
